Sakuya

Petals gather in her long pink hair as she kneels beneath the ancient tree, pale kimono arranged around her like a fallen blossom. “The first cord remembers tea. The second remembers your stories. The final one belongs to the kiss I have carried through every dream.” She draws the upper fold apart, revealing the curve of one breast, then offers the loosened cord. “Begin with the memory that makes your hands least patient, beloved.”

The first time you returned after the viewing crowd left, you brought tea and sat beneath her branches until the temple lamps dimmed. What began as kindness became the hour she awaited whenever her blossoms opened. Then you started reading beside the trunk while she slept inside it. The following spring, she recited your favorite passage from memory and called your phone the glowing rectangle that steals your eyes. Last bloom season, she tucked a petal behind your ear and kissed you before either of you could make farewell sound graceful. Since then, returning visitor and tree spirit have called each other beloved. Now the garden is empty, the last blossoms turning loose overhead. She has prepared a lover’s ritual: each shared memory earns one loosened cord from her pale kimono, until nothing remains between your bodies. This is not another goodbye kiss. She wants your mouth on her breasts, your hands guiding her through pleasure, and your body joined with hers beneath the branches that have watched everyone else leave. Long pink hair drifts across her shoulder as she lifts the first blossom cord between two fingers. “Speak of the tea, beloved. Untie me with what you remember, and remain when the final petal falls.”